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Authors: Christine Murray
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smoking habits in public places.’
Frankie shrugged. ‘I can’t help it. I feel naked without my cigarettes.’
‘She’s your mother though, you must love her. You could contact her more,’ said Rose, returning to their original conversation.
Frankie placed both hands on the table and leaned slightly forward to emphasise her point. ‘Yes, I do love her but, you see, my mother is crazy . I left England to get away from her; it would be kind of pointless to indulge in long telephone conversations from here.’
‘All mothers are slightly crazy.’
‘Rose, when she found out I was teaching in a school that didn’t have a history spanning back over two hundred years, a horrid blazer and an eye-wateringly large fee she told everybody I was a secret agent.’
Rose spluttered into her coffee. ‘She did what ? You are joking?!’
Frankie shook her head. ‘I’m deadly serious.’
‘Why didn’t she just lie and say that you taught in a private school?’ asked Rose, incredulously.
‘I suppose people would ask too many questions. Anyway, Ireland is a small place. They would have found out eventually that I actually didn’t work in any of the handful of schools that they would consider suitable. If she says that I’m a secret agent of some type or another she doesn’t have to answer any more questions.’
‘But surely secret agents don’t actually tell people their occupation? And pray tell, what is there to spy on in Ireland? It’s not exactly Russia, is it? The only state secret we have is exactly how many bottles of whiskey our government consumes in an average year.’
Frankie gave an exaggerated Gallic shrug. ‘I don’t know. She is crazy. I love her, true, but we’re better when we only have contact sporadically. I email Dad a lot, so I keep communication up that way.’
‘In English or French?’ Rose asked curiously.
‘Does it matter? We speak both. God, you Irish! You think anyone who can speak more than one language has discovered the secret of spinning gold from thin air.’
Rose decided to change the subject. ‘Are you doing anything next Tuesday night?’
‘No. Why, do you have something interesting planned?’
‘One of the groups that Daniel works with is holding an open mike night on Tuesday, where actors come and perform one person pieces.’
Frankie raised an eyebrow. ‘It sounds like one of those things that could either be fantastic or truly shocking. Anyway, I’ll tag along and see for myself.’
Rose smiled. ‘Thanks. Maybe you should bring your hip flask as a contingency plan. I better head off. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.’
CHAPTER THREE
On the way home, Rose went to a chemist-one of the large chains that stocked ranges of cosmetics that wouldn’t bring her face out in a rash. She needed to get some lip balm, she’d run out and the harsh January air had left them cracked and sore. She’d planned on just running straight in, making her purchase quickly and getting out before she could be seduced into putting anything else onto her already overloaded credit card. Unfortunately, she was weak and couldn’t resist the allure of the perfume counter. Rose could while away hours at perfume counters: there was something so grown up and sophisticated about them. She loved spraying herself with new scents, smelling undertones of vanilla and high notes of rose, feeling the weight of the heavy glass bottles in the palm of her hand. It brought back memories of being a child, sneaking her mother’s perfume out of her handbag and spraying her wrists with it. She bought into the adverts too, glossy pictures of beautiful women in romantic situations. They seemed to encapsulate that childlike dream of what grown up life would be like. It was comforting. Perfume was the only thing that Rose was fanatical about. She collected it and had dozens of bottles, from the heavy glass bottles of French perfume that Frankie tended to give her for her birthdays to
Frankie shrugged. ‘I can’t help it. I feel naked without my cigarettes.’
‘She’s your mother though, you must love her. You could contact her more,’ said Rose, returning to their original conversation.
Frankie placed both hands on the table and leaned slightly forward to emphasise her point. ‘Yes, I do love her but, you see, my mother is crazy . I left England to get away from her; it would be kind of pointless to indulge in long telephone conversations from here.’
‘All mothers are slightly crazy.’
‘Rose, when she found out I was teaching in a school that didn’t have a history spanning back over two hundred years, a horrid blazer and an eye-wateringly large fee she told everybody I was a secret agent.’
Rose spluttered into her coffee. ‘She did what ? You are joking?!’
Frankie shook her head. ‘I’m deadly serious.’
‘Why didn’t she just lie and say that you taught in a private school?’ asked Rose, incredulously.
‘I suppose people would ask too many questions. Anyway, Ireland is a small place. They would have found out eventually that I actually didn’t work in any of the handful of schools that they would consider suitable. If she says that I’m a secret agent of some type or another she doesn’t have to answer any more questions.’
‘But surely secret agents don’t actually tell people their occupation? And pray tell, what is there to spy on in Ireland? It’s not exactly Russia, is it? The only state secret we have is exactly how many bottles of whiskey our government consumes in an average year.’
Frankie gave an exaggerated Gallic shrug. ‘I don’t know. She is crazy. I love her, true, but we’re better when we only have contact sporadically. I email Dad a lot, so I keep communication up that way.’
‘In English or French?’ Rose asked curiously.
‘Does it matter? We speak both. God, you Irish! You think anyone who can speak more than one language has discovered the secret of spinning gold from thin air.’
Rose decided to change the subject. ‘Are you doing anything next Tuesday night?’
‘No. Why, do you have something interesting planned?’
‘One of the groups that Daniel works with is holding an open mike night on Tuesday, where actors come and perform one person pieces.’
Frankie raised an eyebrow. ‘It sounds like one of those things that could either be fantastic or truly shocking. Anyway, I’ll tag along and see for myself.’
Rose smiled. ‘Thanks. Maybe you should bring your hip flask as a contingency plan. I better head off. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.’
CHAPTER THREE
On the way home, Rose went to a chemist-one of the large chains that stocked ranges of cosmetics that wouldn’t bring her face out in a rash. She needed to get some lip balm, she’d run out and the harsh January air had left them cracked and sore. She’d planned on just running straight in, making her purchase quickly and getting out before she could be seduced into putting anything else onto her already overloaded credit card. Unfortunately, she was weak and couldn’t resist the allure of the perfume counter. Rose could while away hours at perfume counters: there was something so grown up and sophisticated about them. She loved spraying herself with new scents, smelling undertones of vanilla and high notes of rose, feeling the weight of the heavy glass bottles in the palm of her hand. It brought back memories of being a child, sneaking her mother’s perfume out of her handbag and spraying her wrists with it. She bought into the adverts too, glossy pictures of beautiful women in romantic situations. They seemed to encapsulate that childlike dream of what grown up life would be like. It was comforting. Perfume was the only thing that Rose was fanatical about. She collected it and had dozens of bottles, from the heavy glass bottles of French perfume that Frankie tended to give her for her birthdays to
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